‘The divorce became final over the summer. And Roger was gone by Christmas, taking Neil with him. He took my brasserie and my son. The only two things I ever cared about. The bastard. And I adored him.’

Mrs Muffett put her head down on the countertop and sobbed uncontrollably. ‘And I thought he adored me.’

Theresa could see that Imogen was still busy scribbling down notes from the phone.

‘Didn’t your husband realise that it was illegal to take Neil out of school, Mrs Muffett?’

‘Cynthia. I hate Mrs Muffett. After all, I’m not really Mrs Muffett, am I?’

‘Neil – not in school . . . ?’

‘Roger always believed that he was above the law.’ Cynthia shrugged. ‘He didn’t give a toss about “interfering officialdom”, as he called it. And, as he constantly pointed out, he managed to become a successful businessman without one examination to his name, not even a swimming certificate.’ She raised her head, her mascara now smeared down her cheeks. ‘I’ve got six GCSEs, three A levels and a BA.’ She sobbed and looked imploringly at Theresa. ‘And I’ve got a gold medal for swimming!’

Theresa had no idea what to reply, except a feeble ‘I’m so sorry.’

‘Neil’s more like me than Roger. Or he was when he lived here.’

‘He’s a good swimmer, then, Neil?’ asked Theresa.

‘No. A hopeless swimmer. But Roger sang his siren song, dangling all those presents and promises. He won’t be arrested, will he?’

Theresa was lost to know to which male of the Muffett family Cynthia was referring, so said nothing.

But Imogen spoke, brusquely. ‘As Neil is also underage, if he has touched my daughter he will probably be cautioned. But if your ex-husband is implicated in the kidnapping, it is quite possible that the police will charge him with all sorts of things.’ She put her notebook back into her handbag. ‘Thank you, Mrs Muffett. I wonder if you could give me your password for that networking site. You understand that it’s for your benefit as well as our own – I have to find Neil before the police do.’

Cynthia Muffett looked at Imogen. Theresa could see the slow dawning of understanding cross her face. She reached for her handbag and, fumbling inside, pulled out a scrap of paper on which was written ‘160905Neil!’

While Imogen scribbled the password down, Theresa worked out that the numbers must be the boy’s birthday.

‘If I find Neil, I will let you know right away, Mrs Muffett. I promise.’ Imogen signalled to Theresa to follow her out. ‘Meanwhile I suggest that you put that bottle away and start cleaning up. Paint the windows and clear the front entrance. Neil won’t want to come home to this. Pull yourself together.’

As Theresa left with Imogen through the front door, they heard the noise of a glass breaking. It sounded as though Mrs Muffett had sent it flying in their direction.